


Imagine: Castiel finding you in bunker baring pent up emotion with the belief no one is around to see you in that vulnerable state. Recognizing the signs of distress, he offers you a shoulder to cry on.

by webcricket



Series: Castiel Imagines [46]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 21:47:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17231777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket





	Imagine: Castiel finding you in bunker baring pent up emotion with the belief no one is around to see you in that vulnerable state. Recognizing the signs of distress, he offers you a shoulder to cry on.

Soft sniffling draws the angel’s attention to the far wall of the library upon his arrival. Squinting into the dark alcove of lore-lined shelves, gaze falling to the human-shaped mass huddled on the floor, he sees a set of socked feet entirely too finely boned to belong to either Sam or Dean sticking out beneath a pair of knees tightly pinched by bent elbows and hugged to a torso afflicted every few seconds by a shudder; the whole sad scene tops with a head of thick hair hiding the half-turned face of the sorrowful sounding soul lodged within the self-comforting leggy cocoon. 

“Y/N?” he murmurs. Uncertainty tints his tone - it’s difficult to discern the weeping figure as you - someone forever wearing a shielding smile in optimistic effrontery to anything bad. Or so it seemed.

The gravelly tone winnows through the protection offered by your perceived isolation to seize a sob thickly in your throat where waits to burst. Covering your collapse, not wanting to incite concern, you blot shirt sleeves at the damp sockets of your eyes. The light grey sweatshirt material stains charcoal with wetness. “Cas, uh, hi.” You force the numbed acknowledgement past the knot of stress lodged in your neck. “I-I didn’t think anyone would be back until tomorrow.” You rise, averting your countenance to conceal swollen red-rimmed lids from his curious glance.

The momentum of standing so swiftly sends a whirlwind rush of blood to stiff limbs, temporarily draining your brain of oxygen and teetering your balance.

“Are you alright?” Cas catches you by the waist before you topple far, grip firmly adamant, yet slackened in deference as you try to spin away from his steady regard. He guides you to a nearby seat, unwilling to trust your faltering legs despite your protesting faith in them. “Sit,” he instructs, the disquiet driving his voice to unfathomable depths sinking you on the spot. 

“I-I’m … m’okay,” you lie, shunning his searching blues in favor of staring at the black-leather shine of his boots. You wince, immediately regretting the feeble and unconvincing attempt to keep the truth from a celestial being.

The rubber soles shuffle sideways out of your blurry vision. Wood scrapes concrete as he pulls a chair up adjacent to you. He touches a palm to your shoulder, asking in a tenderly tempered whisper, “May I sit with you?”

You nod, daring a darted look into the seraph’s typically stolid features to see what he’s thinking; the fuzzy refraction of lamplight strikes his widened eyes to reveal windows of worry. Hoping to prevent yourself from breaking, from another eruption of emotion, you breathe in sharply, containing the brace of breath until your lungs begin to burn. You believe you should be able to cloister this all inside - the pain, the doubt, the disappointment, all the bad in life, _everything_. Everyone else seems to be able to do it - to _cope_ \- why not you? You’re stronger than this; only sometimes, you’re _not_.

Sitting, keeping his focus fixed on your misty mien, sympathy of understanding swirls his irises; the pink pout of his lips surrender to a sensitive small and reassuring smile. His hand slides upward, ticklishly traveling your neck, extending the stretch of his fingers to cradle your cheek, the flesh there hotly mottled a crimson hue. “It’s okay to not be okay,” he says, thumb soothing where it sweeps the trembling dimple dotting your chin.

A tear rebellious to repression swells to salt your cheek. Another then another spring to follow the wetly forged trail. Scooching to the edge of the seat, submerging yourself in the seraph’s surrounding embrace as he shifts you into his lap to rock your racked body, you unburden a cacophony of muffled cries into the collar of his coat.

Holding you, he doesn’t ask the reason why you are upset - you are, and it’s a fact of feeling he cannot change. Nor does he offer assurances everything will be alright - he knows such false conciliation will not help. Rather, in the silence he gives you the comfort of space to freely feel, staying so you know that no matter what, you are not alone and you are loved.


End file.
